Expiration Dates

Stitches

Thin light seeped in from my left, and I slowly opened my eyes and saw... white. The ceiling, floor, curtains, my clothes... everything was white, and it was almost blinding. I looked to my right and caught a glimpse of brown, and realized that it was just the reflection of my hair on the steel railing of the hospital cot.

Hospital cot.

Where's Michael?

I jolt upright, thousands of questions erupting in my head, and hiss as pain like electricity sparked up and down my spine.

Instinctively, I touch the back of my neck; my hands made contact with something wet and tepid. When I brought my hands back to observe what I had touched, I finally saw something that wasn't white, but red.

As if on cue, a nurse (dressed in white, yes) walked in, and grabbed a stool from the corner of the room and sat beside me. She had blonde hair even shorter than mine, and she smiled gently.

"Leigh Savant?"

I nod, wincing as I feel more blood ooze from the wound I just reopened. The nurse - 'Sarah Blake' according to the name tag pinned to her chest - glanced at my neck and told me to wait so she could stitch me up.

"Don't move, or you'll have to endure more needles piercing your skin," she warned, and walked off.

Maybe I had belonephobia, or maybe it was just because I was only 11, but the thought of someone sewing my wounds scared the life out of me. I sat still as a stone, and a few minutes later the door slid open again.

Only it wasn't the nurse.

I glared at him, but he smiled, and sat on the stool that Sarah the nurse was sitting on.

"Hi, Leigh," he said, and I had to fight back the urge to jump at him. "Feeling better?"

I growled. Surely, he doesn't expect me to forgive him for anything, does he?

"Hey, don't be like that."

"Did. You. Know?" I grunted, as I stared intensely at the corner of the room.

"About what?"

I growled again.

"About what, Leigh?"

"That mom was going to kill us."

I glanced at him; his expression was blank.

"Oh." That was it. There were no signs of anger or fear in his voice, just a pure, oh.

"Did. You. Know?" I asked again, irritated.

"No," he said, then continued: "I mean, Martha did seem pretty upset at that time. But I don't understand... why are you alive then?"

Clenching my teeth, I breathe in and out slowly to calm my nerves. His tone said enough that he clearly didn't expect the younger - weaker - one to be alive.

"Michael," I muttered. "He protected me and Joe."

I could feel his eyes boring into me, and I glanced at his direction; he looked blank, again, but opened his mouth as the name clicked in his head.

"Oh, him," he sneered. "He's the one who killed Martha right?"

Suddenly I grew cold as if all of the blood in my body drained from me.

"He protected me and Joe from her, it wasn't his fault. Mom tried to murder all of us."

"Okay, but now Joseph and Martha are both dead," he said matter-of-factly. "So technically, he is a murderer."

"I said it wasn't his fault," I clench the railing of the bed as I yelled at him.

"Then whose?"

"Mom," I answered without hesitation. Isn't it obvious?

"No," he snapped. "It's not her fault you two decided to run away in the first place."

"What!" I exclaimed. "Yeah I'm sorry, dad, that we didn't want to go to an asylum for being completely sane!"

"You are definitely not sane," he grabbed my shoulders and twisted me so I was facing him. I wince with pain as I feel another wound reopen somewhere around my back region, but he cupped my cheeks violently, forcing me to look at his face. "Now tell me what you see in my eyes. You can tell exactly when I'm going to die right?"

I closed my eyes tightly in refusal. The next thing I knew, a hard hand slapped me right across the face, and my entire body shook as if I was getting electrocuted. I tried to scream for help, but he covered my mouth before any sound escaped from it.

"I said LOOK. AT. ME."

He pulled at my face, forcefully opening my eyes. I shook my head vigorously, and he slapped me again. I fall back towards the bed, my right cheek throbbing and stitches on my head, neck, and back bursting open as liquid flowed and seeped into the sheets. Where is Sarah? Why is she taking so long?

Weak and helpless against a male adult, I gave up. I opened my eyes, and beckoned my dad to come closer so I can see. I looked into his deep brown eyes, and there they were, the numbers.

"Come on, tell me." He seemed oddly excited.

I stared at his numbers for a long time, and smiled. This was perfect.

"What's the matter?" He asked, impatient.

"It's 20-"

The door slid open as Sarah walked in with a man probably in his forties, about the same age as my dad.

"Excuse me, umm, Mr.Savant but you will have to leave for a minute."

"May I ask why?" He asked calmly, never letting his eye off me.

"We need to stitch her wounds back up. It won't be too long, so you can wait at the bench just out in the hallway."

He looked at them, then back to me with eyes boiling with rage. He left the room without glancing back.

"Now let's get you all stitched up," the doctor said, as Sarah rolled the cart with supplies right beside the bed.

"And get ready to leave this place - you should be nowhere near that crazy father of yours."